Dear Sir: You ask me to write liner notes about the long-overdue CD of this band from Mississippi, which brings back many confusing memories to me which are smeared with the ladle of the gravy of now that they have re-emerged like some sort of swamp monster that drew it's parts together from the four corners of the earth quite literally to conquer the world or at least make it a little deafer than it was before. What can I say about berserker barefoot caveman Earl Lundy of the manic gaze and bizarrely burping synthesizer abuse, who I felt would one day electrocute himself from an unfortunate spillage of beer at the chaos gigs of yore and probably even now? Patrick Wallace of the everpresent heavenly yawp and his Bigsby-equipped daemon invocation machine? The wine-fueled and telecaster enraged sardonicism (is that a word?) of the Ben Young who truly totally escaped to Spain and once wore eye makeup in Germany on purpose? What can I say about Jeff Bridges who I once called Geoffrey in print and then that was adapted as his nickname to be said Sir Geoffrey in a fake British accent filtered through Vicksburg? He of the gluelike yet agile bassisms? Or the skinsmen, all five of them, including Elliott Crawford, the Fifth and Final. Skinsmen being a completely ridiculous jazz word that I should not adapt to their crud-blasting-away powerthump? I would rather say something transformational, that this band was as important to me as the Sex Pistols were to other people because in the early 1980s we were all dimly pressed down in the thickhumid heat of Mississippi and the heel of REAGAN'S CHRISTIAN BOOT and all the heathens were retreating to kudzu covered groves, that this Bonnington Truce was indeed a glowing jack-o-lantern and made Halloween happen in the middle of that long-time-dead season. Every time they played it was candy from a stranger, a strangely strange stranger, bizarre candy at that which popped and crackled and felt fuzzy in your mouth (& brains). Everything now is all different from whatever it was then and I have no clear memory of many certain and uncertain things. I have flashes and bits of movies if you will of sitting in cafeterias and going to bars and getting my ears burnt off and odd tastes in my mouth. And why did anyone wear that shirt, ever? And O My Higher Power That Hair. Still and All though the Music was Divinely Best/Blest, hair, shirt and all. But this here is now and the wherefore has become how now? Happily I report that the blood brethren represented herein have retained the filthy fireball essence of what they called POCK MUSIC onceuponatime (which is where all stories re-begin in Part II). Weathered they may be like a vintage guitar that no one can afford but a bunch of everybodys has played, but this here round flat shiny object is now for you, the discerning owner of earholes, to place in a modern machine of some sort or even to download from the series of Tubes that is the Interwhatchacallit into your Pod. Possibly in the future I foresee you will even be able to plug this music directly into your brain as an add-on feature and then, as now, it will make your life infinitely better. Ladies and Gentlemen and People-In-Between (especially for all those in between everything at once, which is where we all were once) I present to you BONNINGTON TRUCE, for better or worse, richer or poorer, till debt do us part. Eat This And See. Sincerely, Mark Saucier Bonnington Truce Officianado.